


Motherless

by courtneybgood



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Crossdressing, Drag, F/M, Mommy Kink, Scratching, Spanking, dubcon, sort of...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 04:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15987257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtneybgood/pseuds/courtneybgood
Summary: Violet and Shirley share a moment alone in Dr. Orwell's waiting room. Violet deals with her hunger, shame, and want.





	Motherless

**Author's Note:**

> _somebody_ had to write some violaf smut that included shirley (olaf's hottest disguise) and the only person who was up to this task was me. i understand that now.
> 
> dedicated to the incredible SofterSoftest, who encouraged me to write this demon that nobody wanted except for me. read all of her stuff because she is the queen of writing violaf.

She’s hungry. Hungrier than she maybe ever has been, living off of strips of gum and watery casserole. Her brother has been whisked away, taken by that mysterious, cold mannered optometrist, and now she sits face to face with Count Olaf. Well. _Shirley._

He looks ridiculous, preposterous, made up like that. For the life of her, Violet can’t understand how anybody could be fooled by a pin curled wig, fishnets and some aptly applied lipstick. Nevertheless, Shirley has made it more than clear that Violet was to address her by the name on her nameplate, if she wanted to walk away with all of her hair intact.

There’s the hunger in the pit of her gut, and fear for Klaus’s safety, and the anxiety about the well-meaning but hopeless Charles - knowing now what awaited them in the eye-shaped building, Violet could not bear to bring her baby sister into the company of Shirley and her accomplice. But there’s also an unreasonable, shameful itch. A want, a need inside her. A burning desire. A guilty secret that she truly, truly does not want Shirley to know. How thoroughly it affects her is downright embarrassing.

The secret is that Violet has a terrible sweet tooth.

On the top of Shirley’s desk sits a plate of steaming, warm, chocolate chip cookies. They smell freshly baked. Violet can’t picture Shirley herself - undisguised, lurking about - actually _baking_ these, but oh, do they smell delicious. Delicious, and they could be laced with sleeping pills, or arsenic. Or vanilla essence. Violet licks her lips.

“Would you like one?” Shirley asks in a high, sing song voice, a twinkle in her bright blue eyes. “I hear orphans can have enormous appetites, what with the gaping hole left in them in the wake of their parents mysterious deaths. It can take a lot to fill it.” Smugly, the treacherous receptionist plucks a cookie from the top of the pile, and takes a dainty bite, with practised care not to smudge her lipstick. Violet grimaces and looks down at her bruised, dirty knees, pressed tightly together.

“Of course I don’t.” She mutters sternly. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Shirley tuts, wiping a stray crumb away from the edge of her mouth. “That’s a shame. I suppose I’ll have to eat all of them myself.”

Violet grits her teeth, indignant and upset at the continued delight that Shirley - in all her various guises - seems to take in inflicting injustice upon her and her siblings. “All we’ve had to eat is gum and casserole, while you get to eat cookies!” She snaps, despising how she sounds like a whining child, knowing she’s giving Shirley exactly what she wants as she rises to the bait. “We’re practically starving and you find it funny!” With a sniff, Violet glances back up at her, trying her best to glare, unafraid.

Shirley looks surprised, then a slow smile spreads on her face with increasing incredulity. “My, my. You really want a cookie, don’t you, orphan? You’re upset because you think you won’t get any sweets! How unfair your life is!” She giggles unpleasantly, then beckons the girl with one long, bony, manicured finger. “You can have as many as you like, of course. I know lots of little girls have a sweet tooth. I was just the same when I was your age.”

 Violet laughs, sharp and short. “You were never a little girl.” She almost wants to add - _and you were never my age!_ \- because she can simply not imagine it. The person in front of her is decidedly adult, so far from any idea that Violet has of being ‘little’. No, _Shirley_ is tall, and sharp, and old. 

“That’s what all children think about adults. They can’t imagine a time when they were as silly and desperate as they are. Like throwing a tantrum for some chocolate. I’m sure you can’t imagine your dearly departed mother doing that.” Shirley hums. Violet finds herself standing, dusting sawdust off of her skirt, eyes on the cookies. She could not bare to look at the villain offering them, not with the shame she feels at considering her offer. They can’t be poisoned, after all. Shirley had eaten one herself. Violet approaches the desk.

“If I have one,” Violet starts warily, “then I’ll take some for my brother and sister.” 

“Certainly!” Shirley agrees, shrill as ever. “It will be a wonderful taste tester for you children. A little sample of what’s in store for when _I_ am your mother.” She smiles, closed lipped, all wide lipstick and sneering glee. She taps her nails on the edge of the ceramic plate, making a dull, high clipping sound on repeat, while Violet looks from the receptionist, to the cookies, to the floor, to the cookies.

Enough. She reaches out and snatches one from the plate, afraid that if she lingers Shirley will grab her, claw her eyes out, stuff her in a sack. But the woman doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch at Violet’s sudden movement. She only continues to smile, to bat the eyelashes of her shiny, shiny eyes.

Violet steps back from the desk and raises the cookie to her lips. “You will never be our _mother,_ Olaf. You won’t be our guardian of any kind, ever again.” Vindictive, she takes a large bite. Shirley’s eyes flash with something dangerous. The cookie is warm and soft and utterly delicious in Violet’s mouth. She has to resist cramming the rest of it in immediately, just to satisfy the dull ache in her stomach.

“I told you. To call me Shirley.” Shirley says, slowly rising out of her seat. Violet realises with sudden alarm that she’s never seen her standing up. The heels make her even taller than Olaf is. “I gave you a chance to be polite, I offered you my baking, and still, you insist on being a rude, filthy little girl.”

“How am I filthy?” Violet mutters, swallowing a lump of cookie whole. It sits in her throat uncomfortably.

“You’re covered in sawdust.” Shirley sneered. “And there’s dirt under your fingernails.” With an ease that surprises Violet, the villain rounds the desk in her heels and comes to be standing in front of her. Panicked, unsure whether or not to run, Violet takes another quick bite of her cookie. She’ll only make the torment worse if she appears phased. She just has to bear Shirley’s mockery for a few more minutes, surely, then Klaus will be done with his appointment and the pair of them can scamper out of here.

“When you’re living under my roof,” Shirley says, “Rudeness will not be tolerated. It will be punished. Severely. Especially rudeness in greedy, know-it-all little girls.” Quick as a viper, her hand reaches out and catches Violet’s wrist, of the hand that raised the cookie to her mouth. Started, Violet yelps and lets go of the cookie. It hits the carpeted floor at her feet. Shirley raises Violet’s hand up to the level of her eyes, only gripping tighter when Violet tries to yank herself away. The receptionist smacks her lips loudly, shakes her head.

Violet’s nails are short and blunt, and in usual circumstances, would be perfectly clean and filed. Practical nails, for getting into machinery with no snags, for exacting precise details. But in her current situation, they are filthy. Just as Shirley said. There is dirt and dust forming an unpleasant looking black gunk underneath them. Violet hadn’t noticed. Her appearance had been the last thing on her mind in these past few weeks. Her small, dirty hands make a stark contrast to the long fingers of Shirley, which seem bizarrely elegant when paired with her neatly painted, pink nails. Shirley smoothes her thumb over the back of Violet’s hand. Violet shivers. 

“Let go of me.” She mumbles, a weak, embarrassed protest. Shirley shakes her head.

“I did warn you, Violet.” She sighs. “I told you to be polite.” She’s looking at Violet’s hands with disconcerting scrutiny, and flicks her thumbnail under the nail of Violet’s middle finger, scraping out some black crud. It’s far too intimate, bizarre, embarrassing, and the eldest Baudelaire cringes, tries to pull away again. Shirley’s nails dig into the skin of her hand, clutching at her, and Violet winces.

“I’ll clean you up.” Shirley hums, pushing the nail of her index finger under the nail of Violet’s ring finger, and then her thumb, repeating the scraping motion, and then wiping the dirt on the sleeve of Violet’s shirt, smiling. “Make you presentable. And then we can discuss your punishment.”

Violet’s face is suddenly very warm. She licks her dry lips. “You can’t punish me. Sir is my guardian, not you.” Shirley continues at her demeaning task, picking Violet’s nails clean.

“Who are you going to tell?” Shirley asks chirpily. “You wanted to be alone with me, otherwise you would have brought along your monkey sister, like last time.

Violet is very red, now. “I did not!” She insists, “I wanted her away from _you!”_ But there’s a slither of doubt in her chest. She could have brought Sunny. She could have sat her on her lap and resolutely ignored the receptionist.

“I don’t believe you.” Shirley murmurs, voice slightly lower. “I might have, but the way you opened your legs when I drew my blade across them leaves me doubtful.”

She’s said it, now, acknowledged Violet’s deep shame - how she had jolted at the touch of Stephano‘s knife, the flat side of the blade stroking across her thigh under Monty’s kitchen table. How she had glanced across at him, looked down at her bowl, and spread her legs, so he could draw the blade on the inside of her thigh as well. How she had pushed her foot forward to rest atop of his, as if she could get away with such a game without consequence. Furious tears prick her eyes. She says nothing.

Shirley exhales, then drops Violet’s hand and nods. “That’s right.” She murmurs huskily. “Now go get your siblings their cookies.” 

Mortified, tongue tied, Violet crosses the room back towards the desk, to retrieve the plate. Shirley’s heels are quieted by the carpet, but she can still hear the woman come up behind her in quick steps, and before she can spin around, Violet is being pressed onto the desk firmly, one large hand planted on her back. She gasps, her cheek colliding with the wood.

“Now be good. Don’t move. We wouldn’t want Klaus to hear you and come running in, only to see you in this indelicate position, would we?” Shirley smirks, voice shrill and mocking once more. She raises her hand from the small of Violet’s back. Scared and tingling, alight with all the wrong reactions, Violet doesn’t move. Pleased, Shirley combs her nails through Violet’s hair, and Violet despises how could it feels. She hates how it reminds her of mother, stroking her hair before bed, giving her scalp a scratch, telling her a story to help her sleep. Hot tears fall onto the wood of the desk.

Shirley steps away, and the eldest Baudelaire can feel her eyes on her, taking her in. Very gently, the back of her skirt is lifted. Violet still doesn’t move, unrestrained, weeping. She just shivers. She can’t remember what underwear she’s wearing and that, all of all things, sends a jolt of anxiety through her.

“Very cute.” Shirley breathes, voice sugary. “I love the frills.” Violet whimpers, and Shirley laughs at the small, pitiful noise. They must be her white cotton bloomers, the ones with the trim. She feels the villain lean over her and freezes - he wouldn’t, would he? She’s not ready, there’s no time, not like this - but then Shirley has straightened up again, having retrieved something from the desk. Violet exhales shakily.

“What are you going to do? I want to know, first.” She mumbles, unable to look up at her. She hears Shirley turn over something plasticy in her hands. She can tell it’s plastic by the way it clicks against her fake nails.

“I’m going to give you ten smacks. Ten is a very modest number, for this sort of thing, so be grateful for that.” Shirley whispers, as if she cannot keep up her high, affected voice in this moment. Violet resists turning her head to look up, burning with curiosity about the expression that could be on Shirley’s face. “And when I’m done, I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, and will address me by my proper name.”

“Will it hurt?” Violet asks weakly.

“Yes.” Shirley hisses, and brings a plastic ruler down against Violet’s behind with no warning, beyond the sound of it swiping through the air beyond it smacks against her. Violet yelps, then quickly covers her mouth, terrified of Klaus, or that eye doctor, emerging and seeing her like this, not trying to fend Shirley off, not screaming and not yelling for help. 

“We have to be quiet. Or you won’t get your full punishment.” Shirley breathes, her voice breaking slightly. Violet weeps and nods in agreement. The beating resumes. Miserable, Violet bites down on her hand hard to stop from yelling out, as Shirley shows no mercy, makes it no easier for her to quiet herself. Her bottom stings horribly. She’s throbbing, between the legs. For only ten spanks, it seems to last forever. Violet suspects Shirley lied about the number. She wishes she had used her hand, so Violet could have felt them on her, without having to ask.

Then she hears the ruler being placed back on the desk, and as the blood stops rushing in her ears quite so loudly, she can hear Shirley’s quick, harsh breath. She wiggles at the sound, and then a clawed hand smooths over her underwear, slides under the waistband to trace over the red, smarting skin. Violet gasps, scared of that hand, of how good it feels. There’s a huff, and the hand is withdrawn before hips come up against her behind, warm and firm. The side felt of Shirley’s skirt brushes against her thighs, and something else altogether rubs against her behind, hard and thick. Violet’s mouth hangs open, and she shakes her head shortly, far too wet, far too scared.

“Don’t - “

“I know.” Olaf wheezes, the ridiculous, high voice gone. It’s as if Shirley has vanished and Olaf is standing behind her, looking his usual, horrid self, if only Violet could bring herself to look over her shoulder. “I know, not yet. Soon. Soon, orphan.” She knows it’s a promise. Long nails drag through her hair, comforting. Violet scrunches up her face to hold back a sob.

“Mother.” She weeps. “That feels like mother.”

The hand freezes. Violet keeps her eyes closed, her heart hurting, her underwear wet.

“Mummy.” She mumbles, dejected, orphaned.

The long, soft scratches resume, slow and measured. Violet shudders against the desk, and cannot say anything more. 

A few painful minutes pass, and then the stroking stops, and the person behind her - Violet doesn’t know who he wants her to see him as anymore - withdraws. The back of her skirt is flipped back down. She hears the seat behind the desk being sat in. Trying to shut off her mind, trying to immediately deny what she just did, Violet straightens up, daring to look in Shirley’s face. Shirley’s expression is only faintly smug, but mostly unreadable, save for the manic gleam in her eyes. One side of Violet’s face is red, from being pressed against the desk. She picks up the plate of the cookies and holds it protectively close to her stomach, like a well earned prize that might be stolen from her.

“Lucky you, orphans.” A strange, cool voice remarks. Doctor Orwell is leading Klaus into the room. “Shirley has made you cookies to take back to the lumber mill.” Violet quickly runs to Klaus, clutching at his hand. His eyes are glazed over, just as they were after his last appointment. “Say thank you, Klaus.”

“Thank you, Shirley.” Klaus murmurs, giving her a dazed and distant smile, as if lost in a dream. Violet’s heart sinks.

“They _are_ lucky, aren’t they?” Shirley crows, smirking back at Klaus, before her eyes flick to Violet. “If only Klaus could stop getting into so many clumsy accidents. No doubt we’ll have to see him again soon.”

“They’re not accidents.” Violet finds her voice, shrill and panicked. “They’re probably the result of hypnotism!”

“Hypnotism is only in scary movies.” Doctor Orwell says, smiling. “You two should get back to your sister now, shouldn’t you?”

Violet looks back to Shirley. If she hadn’t been whimpering on that desk only minutes ago, she would have assumed that Shirley had never left her chair, from how calmly she seems to sit, how evenly she meets Violet’s gaze.

“Toodle-loo, orphans.” She purrs, and Violet flushes a angry, hot red, pulling Klaus along with her towards the door. She can feel Shirley’s eyes on her as she goes, and when they make it out onto the the dusty pavement, she can feel the eye shaped building watching her, judging her, knowing exactly how she behaved. She can feel sharp nails dragging softly through her hair.

No doubt she’ll have to see her again soon. She was promised, after all. Soon.


End file.
